


We'll Always Have Budapest

by BeneficialAddiction



Series: Boxers, Briefs, and Other Shorts [20]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Confessions, First Kiss, Imagine Clint Coulson, M/M, Mutual Pining, Second Kiss, Stays in Budapest, What Happened in Budapest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 06:50:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12206049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: Imagine Clint Coulson Guest Writer Applications prompted: Imagine their second kiss.





	We'll Always Have Budapest

Budapest is an unmitigated disaster, the single worst op that Senior Agent Phillip J Coulson has ever been a part of. They fail to meet their mission objective, burn down half the city getting out, and set off no less than three international incidents all in the span of seventy-two hours but that's not the worst of it. 

No, the worst of it is the sorry state of Strike Team Delta, who have to be hauled up into their extraction jet bloody and screaming, each one of them experiencing some sort of small death. Phil, terrified, hands keeping Clint's internal organs internal, Natasha covering their retreat on a broken ankle, all three reduced to panting panic as they tremble their way down off the adrenaline spike and the pain and fear hit their nerves like wildfire. 

Small deaths... 

Phil's never gotten over the sense that he'd been holding back death with his own two hands that day. Clint certainly _had_ been dying, bleeding out right there in front of him as the jet made for the nearest Hungarian hospital. The archer had known it too, his eyes huge and glassy and frightened as he did his best to clutch at Phil with slippery fingers, painting his suit red. He'd choked, tried to speak and Phil had leaned in close to listen, instead was stunned when Clint had pressed up and kissed him before promptly passing out. 

Sixteen hours later Clint is waking up and Phil is at his side, sitting next to the hospital bed still reeking of the ash and rubble of the city, Clint's blood dried onto his lapels. As the archer's eyes flutter open he lets go of a breath he hadn't even known he was holding, his shoulders dropping as the tension snaps like a broken rubber band. 

He hadn't been sure the man would pull through this time. 

"You're here," Clint breathes, his voice hoarse and barely audible before the coughs start to wrack his frame. 

"So are you," Phil murmurs, getting up to approach the bed, bringing the obligatory pitcher and bendy straw with him. 

Clint hums, a dopey half-smile on his face as his head lolls on the pillow, part smugness and part morphine. 

" 'M always here," he says proudly before sucking at the water Phil offers him. "I never miss." 

Phil cocks an eyebrow but doesn't say anything – he's used to the tangential nonsense that comes out of Clint's mouth when he's on the good drugs. It's a familiar sight; the blonde lying pale and wounded in a hospital bed, limp and loopy, hair a mess, stubble thick on his cheeks, and he never looks more beautiful than he does in those moments. 

Bruised but breathing. 

Hurt but still alive. 

He's soft like this, all his rough edges worn away by the hurt and the medication and the too-near death experience, and Phil wants to kiss him again, wants to crawl into the bed beside him and hold on. 

They're friends, the three of them, Phil and Clint and Natasha, probably closer than friends, but with Clint it's... 

It's probably always been more. 

He's still hurt though, only hours out of surgery, and there are three bullet holes in his belly, and Phil won't risk it, not only because of the pain killers that have him halfway to incoherent. 

"Hey Phil?" 

It's a mumble, nothing more – Clint's eyes are already closed as he slips back toward unconsciousness. 

"I'm right here Clint." 

"I think... I mean I _think_ I remember. Kissing you." 

Phils' heart thumps and he licks his lips. That surprises him – he wouldn't think Clint could remember much other than the searing pain in his stomach, the pounding of his own blood in his veins as it poured out of him over Phil's hands. 

He can't lie to him though, not like this. 

"You did." 

Clint sighs, a smile touching the corners of his mouth, eyes still shut. 

"We should do that again." 

"Maybe later," he hears himself say, before he knows he's going to, before his brain has even computed the thought that yes, Clint had meant it, yes, he had _wanted_ to. "When you're not drugged up to your eyeballs." 

"But what if I forget?" 

And well he just sounds so sad, so forlorn even with his eyes closed, nearly asleep, that Phil can't help but take a step closer, run his fingers gently through his hair. 

"Then we'll always have Budapest," he murmurs, his throat tight. "Go to sleep Clint. You can think about it tomorrow." 

"Always think about it," the archer mumbles, and then he's gone, drifting away in a fog of opiates and exhaustion.

**AVAVA**

Three months pass before it happens again. Clint is up and moving long before that, long before he's officially cleared for anything strenuous, but he's coming along nicely and that's all Phil can ask for.

All he _will_ ask for. 

Because it seems that Clint _has_ forgotten, both about the kiss and his hospital-bed declaration that they should repeat it, at least until one afternoon when he stalks Phil into his office, shoves him back against the door, and makes him see stars. It's all teeth and tongue and desperate push, getting as close as they can and holding on, the kind of last-chance kiss it should have been the first time until they break apart, panting for breath and clinging to each other like life preservers in a storm. 

"Woah," Clint breathes, his forehead resting against Phil's collarbone, his weight the only thing keeping Phil upright against the wall. "Best first kiss ever." 

"Second kiss," Phil says stupidly, his brain still leaking out his ears. "You kissed me in Budapest." 

"No," Clint insists, straightening up to look him in the eye. "Doesn't count – not like that. First kiss shouldn't taste like blood." 

Phil blinks, breathes, decides to press his luck. 

"Neither should the last." 

"Can't argue with that," Clint grins, and then they're both diving back in for more.


End file.
